


hold it in & suffocate

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Hypothetical Descriptions of Death, M/M, References to Canonical Suicide Attempt, Slow Build, Vomiting, Wakanda, Walks In The Park, house arrest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>T'Challa saved Zemo's life because he didn't deserve such an easy end.</p><p>Now T'Challa doesn't know what he wants, let alone what to do with a broken man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. glass prison

**Author's Note:**

> title from liza anne's "[take it back](http://www.lizaannemusic.com/take-it-back/)".

T’Challa had had his fair share of strange experiences. The battle he'd just participated in, for one. (That was composed of _entirely_ peculiar events.) And as a young man, he'd had many poorly handled encounters that were entirely embarrassing. Still had them, really. 

He'd learned to expect the unexpected, to move with the tide, and to follow his instincts. (Which were as sharp as a panther's, by the way.)

But even with all of that preparation, T'Challa had never imagined arguing for the life of the man who’d killed his father.

 

* * *

 

He'd wanted to see Zemo privately, but recent events left the American Secretary of State wary of anyone with powers of any sort. Which, apparently, included the Black Panther - which T’Challa understood, he really did, but he couldn’t help but think the man paranoid:

  1. Helmut Zemo was behind metaphorical bars in a glass prison.
  2. T’Challa was standing five feet away from him.
  3. The member of the Joint Counter Terrorist Center - Ross, T’Challa recalled - was standing two feet from T’Challa with a taser (barely) hidden in his back pocket.
  4. Four guards stood outside the foot-thick metal door only openable by a remote security station or with Ross’ ID card.
  5. Six guards stood inside the room, heavily armed from head to toe in technology both heavily and hardly concealed.



It was quite honestly ridiculous. T’Challa knew he wouldn’t attempt to overpower any or all of these men. (He wasn’t allowed the Black Panther suit, anyway. They had a vibranium detector at the facility.)

However, _T’Challa_ was still worried. But not about Ross or any of Ross’ men.

He was worried for Zemo.

The man was emotionally unstable, still being squeezed within the grasp of grief, still entangled on the doorstep of misery. T’Challa need only glance at Zemo once and he could see sorrow etched in the corners of his face where he thought no one could see.

T’Challa felt odd watching the man like he was a caged animal on display at a zoo. It wasn't right, certainly, but it wasn't considered wrong either. Zemo was not a good man and did not deserve sympathy - but he was still a man, and he still deserved empathy.

He was supposed to be executed tomorrow, but T’Challa knew the fate to be unjust. Not because he didn't deserve the death penalty. No, he certainly did. 

But killing Zemo would be giving him precisely what he wanted. Penance didn't work that way.

T’Challa did not think he was a cruel man, but he was sure that Zemo was one. He did not deserve an easy pass. He needed to face the consequences of his actions.

Besides, Zemo was not a naturally dangerous man like the Avengers’ past foes, the vicious alien armies and terrible artificial entities. He would not be a threat were he alive (and under considerable surveillance).

Looking at him now - refusing to make eye contact with anyone in the room, unintentionally radiating brokenness and pride in equal parts - and T’Challa felt the strange zoo, animal feeling crawling up his spine. 

Ridiculous. Zemo had killed his father in cold-blood. He’d tortured a man for information, brutally murdered several others, taken yet another's free will - and on went the list of crimes.

Pitying this man - should it have even been possible? Was it mercy, or was he being played the fool?

A small cough startled T’Challa back to reality.

He turned to look at Ross, who did a funny thing with his eyebrows and nodded at the unchanged Zemo. “So, you want to save him.”

“Not exactly that,” T’Challa admitted.

Ross harrumphed. “But you don't want him to be executed tomorrow.”

“Yes,” T’Challa said. He had to stop himself from stepping forward in a sort of friendly-reassuring motion, as the guards would obviously take that the wrong way and he'd be arrested for something stupid or sprayed with pepper spray. Paranoia.

“Is Wakandan security as tight as they say?” asked Ross.

T’Challa quirked an eyebrow. “Well, what do they say?”

Ross stared right on back at him. It was clear to both men that the question was strictly rhetorical.

“Hmm,” said Ross. He sniffed, frowned.

Glancing at Zemo then back at Ross, T’Challa neatly spreaded his hands and noted, “Zemo is hardly strong enough to overpower the Dora Milaje. And therein is your answer.”

“He's a very cunning man, and will do everything in his power to manipulate you,” Ross warned. He was fidgeting, making slight movements that were miniscule to the untrained eye. The man was incredibly nervous.

T’Challa hardly blamed him. It was just that it must have been embarrassing for the American - especially given that Zemo's carefully turned eyes had obviously noticed Ross' agitated state.

“I understand, and I am willing to take full responsibility for his possible future actions,” T’Challa responded coolly. In the corner of his eye, he could spot Zemo arching a brow in surprise.

Ross huffed a humorless laugh, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking back slightly. “Right… Of course.”

“Excuse me?”

Ross held up a single finger. T’Challa bit back his own quick anger. “One month. If he causes any trouble at all, if he even dares raise his voice against you or your people, even the vaguest of threats - we will come back for him, and he will be executed.”

That was more like it.

T’Challa flexed his hand, a thrill of energy tingling in his palm. “And for the first month - if there are no incidents?”

“Then you're free to do with him as you wish,” Ross shrugged. He added soon after, “After running all ideas by the UN, of course.”

T’Challa extended his hand with no further thought. “Deal.”

They shook on it, seven pairs of eyes as their witnesses.

Zemo remained silent.

 

* * *

 

The flight back to Wakanda was a long one, which only further heightened T’Challa’s anxiety. He was taking his personal jet - one of the few perks of a royal title - with Zemo as his only other passenger. The strange man refused to sit near T’Challa at all, which irritated T’Challa in a way that caused him a terrible itch on the back of his neck whenever he even looked at Zemo.

It was discomforting, irrational, and unnecessary.

If T’Challa thought sitting by Zemo would change anything, he would be wrong. Not that he’d tried - the air about Zemo was so cool it'd freeze his heart.

T’Challa resigned himself to watching Zemo from afar, instead. It was a nice view, he had to admit, the sun setting to leave the sky a hazy red-orange-pink hue. The fading light illuminated Zemo’s face, turning the marks of fatigue and lines of stress streaking his face to memories.

T’Challa realized suddenly, his heart palpitating in fear, that he couldn't decide which sight he liked more: the view or the man.

Hurriedly, he buried himself in a stack of papers that required his attention. Various events were coming up - some were silly things to ease his transition into kingship, some were more serious. Stark would be visiting at the end of the month, as Wakanda would reluctantly be hosting a celebration for the Vienna Accords.

Though celebration was hardly the word for the surely tedious politics that would operate throughout the dinner. 

And, of course, there was a file detailing preparations for Barnes'... operation. T'Challa would have to be careful to keep news of that far from Zemo. It was difficult to say how the other man would react.

Shuffling the papers, T’Challa couldn't help the fatigue that settled on his shoulders. So much had happened in the past few months, almost too much. He didn't know if he could stand much more - but he would have to keep his spine straight, his shoulders back, and his head held high. It was what Wakanda needed from him.

T'Challa's gaze drifted over to Zemo, and he startled when their eyes locked. Zemo raised an eyebrow tiredly, not having the energy for much else. He felt as if he should say something, but Zemo peeled his eyes away too early.

His stomach churned.


	2. metal prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zemo is stubborn and awful. T'Challa is just trying to be a good host.

T’Challa had not wanted it to come to this. But he knew that Wakanda had not forgiven Zemo for killing their king, and T’Challa had hardly been able to, either.

He didn't expect them to greet him with open arms. In fact, the two Dora Milaje warriors who met them at the landing strip were partially there to protect Zemo.

But T'Challa couldn't help but wish the shadows in the windows would disappear.

The two of the Dora Milaje that met T’Challa at the small airport had insisted on locking binders around Zemo's wrists, and T’Challa could do little but look on the affair with careful disinterest. He'd tried to intervene - usually his protectors listened to the king in all things - but they called him foolish. Short-sighted. Naive.

And they'd gone ahead with it, and T'Challa could not bring himself to argue.

He had reformed the Dora Milaje because he was inexperienced. He was too young and ill-prepared, as he hadn’t expected to come to the throne so soon. The Dora Milaje were at once his greatest protectors, wisest counselors, and most secure insurance (one girl from each tribe, a necessary sacrifice for peace - and perhaps sacrifice was too strong a word).

They were the foundation for his throne, and he _needed_ to trust their judgement.

 

* * *

 

Zemo had no possessions but the clothes on his back. He had not insisted on anything else, which Ross seemed appreciative of. (“Makes my job a helluva lot easier,” he'd commented.) Even without the luggage, Zemo was sweating. They'd only been out the plane for ten minutes - perhaps he was unused to the heat, having lived in Eastern Europe for most of his life?

Zemo's head was downturned. Like in his cell, he refused to make contact with anyone around him. Even when the Dora Milaje gripped him a little too tightly, he hardly winced.

T’Challa looked up to the fading Wakandan sky, watching the last bits of sunlight trickle beneath the line of lush trees. A warm breeze brushed his suit jacket.

“Is the vehicle ready?” he asked the nearest guard.

She nodded and responded in Hausa, pointing to an armored truck a few feet away.

“Come,” he told Zemo, who shifted his jaw. T’Challa felt that guilty twinge of pity again as he took note of Zemo's binders.

Zemo followed him to the vehicle without a struggle, dust mixing with his sweat. One guard took the wheel while the other took the seat beside Zemo, who shifted uncomfortably under her steely gaze.

Luckily, the drive to the palace was not a long one. The lifeless air traffic air traffic region quickly gave way to the familiar green forest, humidity quickly quickly fogging the windows.

T’Challa watched Zemo as he stared out the blurred blurred window impassively. Thick, rich tree trunks passed quickly, blocking the wildlife held within. (T’Challa thought that both a pity and blessing at once.) The view reflected back in distorted Zemo's smooth face.

Zemo hardly seemed bothered by the intense guard beside him by the intense guard beside him; but then, he hardly seemed bothered by anything, now. T’Challa wished that he would show something, anything to show he could still feel. Because if he couldn't, he was as good as dead already already and this would all be for nothing.

 

* * *

 

“And this is your room.”

Zemo turned around nonchalantly, the light from the bedside lamp framing his head like a cruel halo. Catching T'Challa's eye, he nodded, turning back more slowly.

The Wakandan palace was not very large (they were a small country, after all) but it was no mere building. Smooth yet industrial, ancient yet relevant, the palace had been T’Challa's home since he was small. It was a modern building - reflective of his culture, but equipped for every situation. Including the dangerous ones.

Zemo's room was on the same level as his own. This would allow both T’Challa and any patrolling guards to keep a close eye on him, besides the three security cameras installed in hidden corners.

(T’Challa had no doubt that Zemo knew they were there. The man had every right to be suspicious and T’Challa just knew he'd search his room as soon as the king left. And that was understandable. So long as he did not disable the cameras, it was of little concern.

And there was no way he could figure that bit out; all items that could be used as weaponry were taken from the room. Besides, T’Challa had helped develop the cameras’ technology himself. It was practically invisible and invincible.)

“Your room,” T’Challa repeated unnecessarily. “It's small, but -”

“It's bigger than the box,” Zemo interrupted, voice oddly oddly soft.

He realized suddenly that these were Zemo's first words in some time. For today, at the very least, but who knew how long he'd refused to speak? T'Challa attempted to recover himself quickly, saying hastily, “Yes. I expect it's more comfortable than… that.”

He cringed inwardly.

Zemo gave something of a small harrumph, sliding his hands in his pockets and shrugging lightly. He looked at T’Challa from the corner of his eye curiously. (Was that his cue to leave? He suddenly felt awkward, having seemingly forgotten all his social cues.)

“I'll go now,” T’Challa said just in case.

Sliding out the door, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Touching a cheek, T’Challa realized that his face had been burning.

 

* * *

 

When T’Challa awoke the next morning, he realized two important things:

  1. He was hungry. He'd forgotten to feed himself, evidently - and Zemo. What had he been thinking?
  2. He smelled strange, as well. He'd forgotten a shower.



Everything was off and out of place, and T’Challa could only think of one change responsible for the feeling. Zemo had done something to leave T'Challa's life in such disarray; there was no other explanation.

Or maybe it wasn't Zemo specifically, but the fact that he had a house guest with him? He’d have to collect more data on that, so to speak.

Well, nevermind that. All could be easily fixed.

After a brief shower, T’Challa changed into a casual civilian outfit before striding down the hall to knock at Zemo's door. “Hello? Are you awake?”

T’Challa counted to fifty - very slowly - before raising his fist to knock again. “Hel -”

He was cut off by the door swinging open. Standing in the doorway, opposite a mildly surprised T’Challa, was an extremely tired Zemo. “What are you doing here,” said the extremely tired Zemo.

“I came to check in on you,” T’Challa explained, rubbing the back of his neck unconsciously. “I realized this morning that I was a terrible host, and had forgotten to offer you a meal yesterday evening.”

“Why are you checking on me?” Zemo asked, brow furrowed.

“Who else would?” T’Challa asked in turn, confused.

Zemo gave a half-shrug. “You must be busy. You could send a message.” His door was still only partially open, and he wanted to invite himself in, but the conversation was evidently drawing to a close, so perhaps not.

“No,” said T’Challa, “you're right across the hall, so it's not a trouble.”

“I see.” Zemo made to close the door, but T’Challa grabbed the knob before he could lock him out.

“Breakfast!” T’Challa managed. Zemo gave him a funny look, cracking the door back open a bit. “Breakfast will likely be ready in a quarter hour.”

“You're treating me like a guest,” Zemo observed, mostly to himself.

“You are one,” T’Challa lied as the door closed. It didn’t matter, though. He did not think Zemo had heard.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast was awkward. Then again, T’Challa hardly knew what he’d expected. He knew it was because of him, though, and not because of Zemo.

The setting was fine. Usually an esteemed guest would be brought to the dining hall - an elaborate and ornate room filled with beautiful Wakandan arts and specifically engineered to echo sound in the most pleasant way possible. However, the room was large and formal, and T’Challa did not think Zemo would be comfortable there.

Plus, Zemo was not a guest; Zemo was a prisoner. The Dora Milaje would hardly let Zemo breathe air in that room. (T’Challa hated to think what the staff would do. At least the two groups were civil for this morning.)

Zemo was painfully quiet, on the other hand. Breakfast itself was a simple affair - a loaf of bread with a few jars of fruit spreadings to choose from. A bowl of actual fruit on the side.

Swallowing a bite of food, T’Challa forced himself to speak first. (No doubt he'd have to do so when attending social parties as the king of Wakanda. It would be good practice.) “I won't be here every morning.”

What a great conversation starter.

Zemo glanced up at him, uninterested. “As to be expected.”

“Of course,” T’Challa decided on saying, like that'd been his expected answer all along. (It wasn't.) “Today is relatively clear for me, however, and I would would like to show you around before you have to get on on your own.”

Zemo set down his utensils. “Why you?” he demanded, staring T’Challa straight in the eye. He was stiff, his spine straight and rigid. The man was uncomfortable. Angry, possibly.

(As to be expected when you’re technically under house arrest for who knows how long.)

“Why not me?” T’Challa challenged, letting his own amusement sponge through his words, a little.

“Because you’re a king and you have responsibilities,” Zemo replied. It was unwavering and echoed his earlier statement, and T’Challa realized that he’d been thinking about this. T’Challa wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“They can wait for a day.” Noting that Zemo seemed unconvinced, he set down his own eating utensils and extended a hand to the other man, plastering on his most charming smile and ignoring his hunger and ignoring his hunger. “We can start now. If you’d like.”

Zemo ignored the hand, unsmiling as usual, but stood.

 

* * *

 

Zemo was quiet the entire tour of the Wakandan palace, listening politely to T’Challa’s (sometimes overexcited, sometimes boring - depended on whether he was showing him a display room or a bathroom shortcut, or both at once) monologue. He asked no questions, and T’Challa was at least somewhat sure he wouldn’t be able to answer some of the ones Zemo had in mind.

The man was a ticking time bomb, and T’Challa didn’t know when the timer would run out.

The halls were fairly empty - it was early and it was a weekday, so there wouldn’t be any of those funny little tourists from the cultural program they’d just started - but T’Challa knew that the Dora Milaje would be watching. Or perhaps they were training, in which case, the average security team would be watching through the cameras.

Perhaps that should feel strange, but it didn’t. Not really. He was used to being under constant scrutiny, having grown up as royalty. Wakanda wasn’t a large country, but he still faced uncomfortable amounts of attention when he attended public or even international events.

And he knew well what he meant to Wakanda. Should he come to any harm before the line of succession was officiated, the nation could very well dissolve chaos. Tensions between the tribes had been rising before he'd established the Dora Milaje, and he expected they'd erupt if he were gone.

Lost in his own thoughts, T’Challa hadn't realized that he'd been walking alone for the past minute or so. The fact left him feeling sick; he was the Black Panther, he should be better than this. Walking back to a curious Zemo, T’Challa chided himself and mentally prepared a To-Do List of sorts to adjust his sleep, fitness, and work schedule.

“What was that?” Zemo asked, arms crossed in defense.

T’Challa shook his head. “Nothing. Dazed off.”

Zemo threw him a look of disbelief, but turned back to the object which had captured his interest. Guiding his own eyes up, T’Challa grimaced to himself.

“A portrait of your father and you,” Zemo said. “How old were you?”

T’Challa knew he was asking only out of politeness, but he humored the other man. “I was twelve.” Personally, he detested the portrait. It had been done in paints - far more expensive than a mere photograph - and T’Challa did not think the portraiture a particularly gifted one. But he was a scientist and not an artist, so what did he know?

“You sound upset, but seem happy enough in the painting.”

“My father kept feeding me funny riddles,” T’Challa explained, if a bit gruffly. He tried to shake the tone from his voice as he continued, “I refused to sit still, and so he tried to bribe me.”

“That’s how he got you to stay there for so long? By appealing to you.” Zemo’s face crinkled.

T’Challa breathed a laugh. “He was never one for Machiavellian tactics. He made sure I knew who I was - a future king - but he always did enjoy to dote.”

“Me, I spoiled my son,” Zemo admitted, head tilted slightly as he gazed at the portrait. “Used to indulge his fantasies.” Something in his eyes went soft, wistful - until his visage hardened and cracked like clay. T’Challa suspected he'd been reminded of the Avengers.

Wouldn't every child want to be like them? To have the ability to fly, to go anywhere they wanted. To be able to vanquish obstacles in sheer acts of will and self-confidence. To live happily ever after because that's simply what heroes do.

T'Challa knew he'd wanted that as a child. Perhaps a part of him still did - but that fairytale ending seemed less and less clear every day he spent without his father. The path to heaven was foggy. He needed a guide, and he needed his father.

 _Zemo took that from him._ T'Challa could feel his heart wince, wither, wallow.

Such thoughts were an unnecessary burden.

He pushed them away.

“Tell me,” Zemo said. His voice was very quiet. (The hallway was still empty and the man was still close. As close as a breath away.) “How long am I imprisoned in this palace?”

T’Challa refused to succumb to the temptation of closing his eyes and ignoring the difficult question. He was stronger than that. “Zemo, we have not yet consulted the United Nations on the matter, and so every security precaution will be taken until such an occurrence.”

The other man’s response was terse. “I'm here forever.”

T’Challa nodded.


	3. ice-warm prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interpretation/continuation of the post-credits Bucky scene.

T’Challa was surprised that he and Zemo had not yet come to conflict.

Though he really shouldn't be surprised. A week had passed, and he himself had been too busy to check in with Zemo. There was simply too much going on, with the aftermath of the Winter Soldier (or, rather, Zemo’s actions) and the Avengers' blazing trail of smoldering ashes.

There was really no other way to describe it.

Speaking of the Avengers, he had a meeting with Rogers soon. T’Challa supposed that he wanted an update on Barnes - although, the Wakandan king had heard some strange news of a mass prison break out. Specifically, from around the location where Rogers' team had been held. All rumors, insubstantial. But still curious enough to make him wonder.

Rolling out his shoulders, T'Challa assumed a more calm attitude. He had to remain constant for the rest of the world - a confident, intelligent, capable ruler. Even if it wasn't true, he had to make them think it was.

(And he was intelligent and capable and confident. And responsible and honest, but it was difficult to be all those things at once and constantly. To be perfect even in the confines of your home.

But he would do it, because he wanted this. He'd sworn to protect his kingdom and to take on the mantle of the Black Panther.)

The elevator T’Challa was standing in jolted slightly, and he frowned. He would have to have his tech team look into that. Maybe a little later in the day. It wasn't a big deal; the floor he needed was only two more down in any case.

Still, he wanted his operations to run as smoothly as possible, and T’Challa knew that this slight mishap would bother him for the duration of the day. It could hardly be helped.

In any case, he had arrived at his destination. Stepping out the pristine and smooth white elevator, he strode down the hallway to his right. Typing in a password to the seemingly blank wall, T’Challa waited as the door (what used to be the wall) slid open to reveal Rogers and his team of Wakandan scientists. Barnes was there as well, the end of his metal arm covered in a patch of cloth.

Rogers turned to face T’Challa, offering him a nod before turning back to Barnes, speaking softly. T’Challa took this as his cue to leave. He consulted for a minute with a nearby doctor, to check that everything was going smoothly (which it was), then quietly exited.

T’Challa let out a breath he’d hardly realized that he was holding. The scene he'd just faced was more difficult than he'd imagined. The king had purposely distanced himself from the project, overseeing the general operations and making minute decisions but remaining emotionally distant. He had tried to convince himself that this was solely because he had a multitude of responsibilities as a ruler.

Which was absolutely true, but also allowed him to ignore his obvious personal connection to the subject.

To Barnes. The Winter Soldier. The man he'd tried to kill for killing his father. The brainwashed tool forced to kill for decades. Another notch on Zemo's list of infinite crimes.

T’Challa walked away, making a round up then back down the hall in an attempt to calm himself. He reminded himself to breathe and to watch and to listen. He reminded himself that he was the Black Panther and a king, and that he could handle this as he handled all other matters.

Granted, he'd only been king for several months, but he'd prepared all his life for the position. He'd simply never imagined that he'd be given the title so early on.

The small fact hit a sore spot.

Spotting Rogers, T’Challa made his way over to the grieving man.

Rogers hardly glanced at him as he approached, only briefly stating, “Thank you for this.”

T’Challa followed his gaze out the window. He knew that beyond the thick spread of trees and rolls of fog was the Panther. It was good that Rogers looked to it; perhaps its calming qualities would grant him peace.

“Your friend and my father,” T’Challa said. “They were both victims. If I can help one of them find peace…”

Rogers acknowledged his explanation with a small pause, a silent agreement.

“You know if they find out he's here, they'll come for him,” the other man warned. Rogers actually seemed concerned for T’Challa. Or perhaps he just wanted Barnes to be able to rest. It was difficult to say; likely it was a combination of the two.

“Let them try.”

 

* * *

 

Shaking hands with Rogers at ground level, T’Challa saw him off under the good care of one of his Dora Milaje.

Rogers did not stay any longer than necessary, leaving Wakandan as soon as Barnes no longer needed him. He was an international criminal, technically. Rogers had cryptically said to T’Challa that he “must not want too many of those on Wakandan soil at once”, perhaps alluding to both the Winter Soldier and Zemo.

Zemo was supposed to be a carefully guarded secret, but he wouldn't be surprised if Rogers knew.

Speaking of Zemo, T’Challa wondered how the man was. The Dora Milaje had not informed him of any strange behavior, so the man must have been fine.

Then, their definition of fine varied from his own.

Resolving to (physically, himself) check in on his charge, T’Challa took the elevator to the level of their rooms. The fog was still thick over the forest as usual, but the height to which he was racing provided an incredible view of the Panther.

It never failed to take his breath away.

Then the bell ding’d to inform him that he was on the correct level, and T’Challa reluctantly departed the elevator.

Technically, the floor Zemo was staying on was the floor for the king and his family. Normally guests would be forced to stay on a floor or two down, but T’Challa and the Dora Milaje had both agreed that it'd be easier for Zemo to stay on the floor with the highest security.

Not just the Dora Milaje, of course. T’Challa would just as easily be able to take Zemo down.

If it came to that. He really hoped it wouldn't.

Knocking once, twice, thrice on the door opposite his own, T’Challa waited patiently for Zemo to open up. It could take a while, but T’Challa knew that Zemo had little to do. He couldn't sleep all day.

T’Challa knocked one more time for luck (and, perhaps, a childish twinge of annoyance) then stepped back and prepared to wait an unpleasant amount of time.

Or not.

The door swung open a crack. T’Challa could hear him sigh, and then open the door as wide as possible. Zemo stood in the doorway, his hair a mess and his clothes somewhat askew. Perhaps he could sleep all day.

Also, the sight was different than how T’Challa was typically received. It was an amusing juxtaposition - though he didn’t dare mention that.

“What do you want?”

T’Challa shrugged as casually as he could and said, “I wanted to make sure you were doing fine. Though, you don't much look it. Or smell it,” he added, wafting at the air uncomfortably.

Zemo scowled. “I'm not fine. I'm bored.”

“Have you tried to explore the palace?” T'Challa asked. Usually he'd recommend that for younger children, but Zemo was a special case.

“I’m not a child.” Zemo’s frown grew deeper. (T’Challa regretted speaking.) “Besides, your guards refuse to let me leave this room. They hardly give me the time to shower, and meals are slipped in whenever I sleep.”

That had not been his orders. The king shifted his weight under Zemo’s scrutiny, wondering if he should berate the guards or ignore the incident quietly and just speak to their leader quietly.

“I’m sorry for their treatment of you,” T’Challa said decisively. “Tomorrow, I will take you into town -”

“No,” said Zemo.

“No?”

“The people hate me. I killed their king.” Zemo stated this all stunningly casually. “It is safer for me here, in the palace. You made the deal to keep me alive.”

“I did not think you wanted that,” T’Challa admitted.

Zemo's response was frosty. "You've done everything in your power to prevent what I had wanted.”

"Had?" T'Challa asked with raised brow.

Zemo watched him impassively.

T’Challa conceded, “I understand.” He gestured to Zemo how one might gesture to a panicked horse, which made him neither smile nor relax.

The king was forced to admit defeat. They were making no progress. Zemo would remain a sad, sad man and learn to love his isolation. T’Challa would go about his everyday king business and ignore the man across the hall.

Everyone would pretend to be happy because that was what they should've wanted. That was what Stark and Ross and the world would expect.

And if that was what Zemo preferred, then who was T'Challa to keep bothering him?

T’Challa eyed Zemo carefully, and was about to make his (perhaps final) departure when,

“It is suffocating.”

T’Challa blinked, unsure if he'd heard the small man before him correctly.

“To be alone, it is suffocating,” Zemo reiterated, a flash of annoyance marring his face. “I would not be opposed to having company tomorrow.”

“Oh,” said T’Challa. Something warm and soft and hopeful seemed to bloom in his chest - why else would it swell in such elation?

It was a good feeling. Something he hadn't felt in a while.

“That would be good,” T’Challa added, throwing in a hesitant smile. “But tomorrow’s morning and afternoon are booked for me. Perhaps something in the late afternoon?” (He didn't want to say evening. That sounded official and strange.)

Zemo gave him an odd look. “I am completely free. As in schedule, but you knew that.”

And then the door was closed in T'Challa's face and that was that.


	4. saved by the bell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Challa realizes that he's not as good at being king as he should be.
> 
> Also, he vomits.

T’Challa asked himself several times that day if he had any idea what he was doing.

He discovered quite soon that he didn't.

He'd gone to bed without formulating a plan of attack. He could hardly sleep because his mind was at once feverishly awake and maddeningly empty. He woke up early just to avoid Zemo during breakfast.

And then he purposely overbooked his morning - alright, maybe not overbooked, but he took on significantly more responsibility than usual. Which was good because it made him appear capable, but terrible because his mind was still infuriatingly blank.

T’Challa found himself wondering how his father was able to handle it all. He wondered if King T’Chaka had ever been tempted to just… toss all the papers in the fire and delete every single file on the computer.

Maybe he'd thought about it, but he'd never act on it. His father had been a notoriously kind and patient man. And wise - which was why T’Challa had agreed to carry on the Vienna Accords. T’Chaka had supported them for a reason.

Which reminded T’Challa. The gala in honor of the Vienna Accords was soon approaching. A majority of the figures who had signed the Accords would be arriving in a little more than a week, and T’Challa had hardly done anything to prepare.

He’d been so caught up in worrying about Zemo that he’d forgotten to worry about _that_.

About an incredibly important event that would help determine Wakanda's role in international politics for years, maybe decades.

Damn.

T’Challa was fairly sure he could recall who would be attending, but he realized with a jolt of guilt that he had no idea what would be occurring. Likely he’d be forced to deliver a speech. That wasn't so bad; he could easily fake his way through that. And socializing was never a struggle for him. T’Challa would flatter the guests and carve for Wakanda a greater influence within the UN, simply put. As easily said as done.

But.

Stark would be there. As he was the main Avenger to have deferred to the Accords, his presence would be key to the “celebration”. That was dangerous. No doubt Stark would take advantage of the opportunity to "snoop" about the palace and stick his technology where it was not welcome. 

Maybe he could just avoid Stark. Keep everyone else talking and eat food in between - because no doubt Stark would smell trouble. T’Challa was smart, but Stark was smarter. He would take one look at the security and know something - if not exactly what - was off.

He could discover that both Zemo and Barnes were being held in Wakanda. T’Challa could not allow that.

T'Challa made his way down the corridor and down a level from the private observation deck, his favorite place. The floor belonged to the core group of his administration. They were usually located in a separate and more private building, but that was currently undergoing renovations.

Knocking on the fifth thick wooden door down the hall, T’Challa waited for a thin voice to call out the typical, “Don't just wait about, come in!”

T’Challa complied and poked his head through the crack with a foolish smile. “Hello.”

The older woman at the desk looked up from her computer and gasped. Her jewelry rattling as she stood, she hobbled over notice her king a few warm hug. “King T’Challa! It is good to see you.” She patted his back fondly before beaming up at him. “What can I do for His Highness?”

T’Challa laughed, just a bit uncomfortably. “No need for the formalities, Auntie.”

She shooed him into a soft chair across the desk, settling herself back behind it. “Well, I must show some respect.” The woman winked and cracked her knuckles, then pulled her keyboard closer to her. Her fingers were all set to type. “What are you here for?”

Ah, this was the hard part. “Strange as it is,” T’Challa began slowly, almost nervously, “I have no idea what is to happen for the Vienna Accords’ celebration. But we need to tighten its security - I hope that won't be too much trouble, I know it's in a couple of weeks -”

Auntie held up a small, wrinkled hand.

Her smile dropped, and she frowned.

Angrily.

 

* * *

 

This time, his door opened as soon as he knocked.

Zemo stared at him, which sometimes happened but seemed more significant this time.

“What happened to you?”

T’Challa breathed a laugh. He slumped against the brown-painted wall, sagging against it. “What do you mean?’

Zemo motioned up and down at T’Challa. He did not seem impressed. “You look awful.”

“I did anger one of my key administrators,” T’Challa admitted.

The Sokovian grimaced. “Are they dangerous, like the Dora Milaje?”

“Hardly!” T’Challa huffed. “They are a far more dangerous breed of... danger. The Dora Milaje refuse to defend me from their ridicule.”

“Ridicule?”

T’Challa winced. “I am not very good at remembering every single... detail. They do not like it when I attend events and forget the names of the people, or when I deliver speeches impromptu.”

“I take it you have forgotten an important detail,” Zemo said.

T’Challa smiled weakly, glancing away almost bashfully. “You could say that. I'm not sure I want to think about it.”

Zemo uncrossed his arms and stepped out of his doorway. He did this all slowly, as if thinking it through while doing it. His face was blank, betraying nothing.

“I would invite you in,” Zemo said, “but you own this room.”

 

* * *

 

Zemo sat on the small bed and T'Challa pulled up a chair. He was sure he looked exhausted - talking to that Auntie was always a tiring affair, but she got the job done the quickest. Her bones might be soft, but her mind was as sharp as ever.

T’Challa looked across at his father’s killer (that was what he was, want he?), and wondered whether he or Zemo looked worse. The other man had dark bags weighing his eyes down, and his cheeks were more hollowed out than before. He’d had a pleasant, round face when T’Challa had met him on the cliff’s edge. T’Challa recalled that’d he’d been disgusted with how healthy and alive Zemo had seemed then.

He couldn’t recognize that as the man before him, now.

T’Challa wondered if Zemo would keel over. Or perhaps he would just go to bed tonight and not wake up the next morning. Maybe he would go pale, right now, choke a little, plead for help. Maybe his fate wouldn't be so kind. Maybe the spirits would treat him as they did his father - a far better, far wiser man - and separate his soul from his body in a searing hot, painful flash.

A snap of the neck. A bullet to the brain. A drop of oil and the flick of a match.

So many ways to end his life: the life of his father's murderer.

Swallowing hard, T’Challa closed his eyes and tried to force down the sudden sour bile that threatened to spill up and out his throat.

It didn’t work.

Luckily, though, he was sitting next to the trash bin. Clutching his stomach, T’Challa hid his dirtied face in the crook of his arm and groaned.

He was the fool Auntie had taken him for, after all.

T’Challa could feel Zemo approach; the bedsprings uncoiled ever-so-softly and T’Challa tried to focus in on that sound. Yes - he just… needed to focus. On something, anything, besides the putrid smell wafting up from the bin beside him.

“Are you alright?”

T’Challa shook his head slightly, too exhausted to do much more.

“Yes, I did not think so,” Zemo said with a certain finality to his tone. “I’m going to call for one of your guards. The scary, female ones.”

T’Challa nodded his head quickly, feeling that awful rumble of his stomach once more. He threw himself over the trash bin’s opening, fully prepared to empty his stomach’s contents in it once more.

Zemo sighed and made an efficient pace over to the door. T’Challa could hear him shout something, and then a quick rattle of armor and cries of alarm and there the Dora Milaje were, carrying his weight away on their shoulders.

 

* * *

 

T’Challa stared up at the ceiling of his room and could only think about how ridiculously large it was. (The whole room, that is.)

The bed was large. It was supposed to have space for both the ruler and their partner, but T’Challa was lacking the latter and barely filled the shoes of the former.

He didn’t feel like king.

He was hardly prepared for the role. He held the mantle and title of the Black Panther, but that was something that made sense. T’Challa could understand the Black Panther. He could feel how it was connected to the rest of Wakanda and its people and its forests and its life. And fighting made sense - it was a straightforward art with complex moves, but it was a dance he was trained to perform.

And he was technically trained to perform the role of King of Wakanda (technically) -

\- but the crown was too heavy.

T’Challa had thought his father would be there beside him, guiding him through the steps. That eventually, the dance would become as simple as a waltz and then he could let go of his father’s hand.

That future was wrenched away. His father wasn’t there to guide him through the steps. No, he was standing at the center of a ballroom where he knew none of his fleeting partners, let alone the the steps to the dance.

T’Challa could feel the nausea coming back over his head in waves, and he closed his eyes to block it out.


	5. secret garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Challa is _maybe_ (not) dying. Zemo is wearing a sweater. Sunflowers?

When he awoke, there was someone sitting beside him. Their breaths were short and shallow, but T’Challa knew. They could not hide from him.

T’Challa dared not open his eyes. Were it an assassin beside him, they might try to kill him all the quicker.

So he waited and laid perfectly still, taking care to keep his breaths even. He would wait for his would-be attacker to make the first move.

Unless they stayed still for another ten minutes. Then, perhaps, T’Challa would have to strike first.

Moving his index finger only the slightest, T’Challa took some comfort in the soft blanket's threads beneath his skin. At least he could take pleasure in that one thing before his (hypothetical) death. If he’d miscalculated this encounter, Wakanda would lose its king and bloodline. She could dissolve into anarchy or civil war -

Fabric rustled.

Softly, faintly.

A bit rough. Wool? A sweater?

A sniff - illness. A cold. Or discomfort, a social reflex to fill the silence. Like a subtle, less polite cough.

Not his administration, then. Nor a Dora Milaje. And certainly not the house staff; frankly, they would not dare enter the royal chamber while he was residing in it. (Which was ridiculous but customary.)

And it could not the doctor or any other medicinal professional. That would require the presence of the Dora Milaje.

T'Challa's heart skipped a beat and he nearly choked (on what? his own breath? fool) because that meant that there could only be one person beside him.

(Barring an assassin.)

The king took a gamble and he slowly opened his eyes, faking a thick sleepiness when, in reality, his body was coursing with adrenaline.

“Zemo?” he said, letting his voice crack with sleep. That was not faked.

“Yes, it's me,” and T’Challa can feel him lean closer slightly, possibly unconsciously. Zemo's next words are hesitant: “I know I am not supposed to be in your quarters, but I could hear you cry out in your sleep from across the hall and -”

T’Challa held up a palm. He did not have to fake the frailty in the motion, which frightened him, but he shoved it to the back of his mind. “Please, do not lie to me. The walls are entirely soundproof.”

Zemo shrugged. “Alright. I was the one with the bad dream.” At T'Challa's expression of _go on_ , he sighed and continued, “I could not bear the solitude so I came to your room. I knocked, and you were so dazed that you answered the door then immediately collapsed on your bed once more. I stayed for the remainder of the night and intended to return to my quarters in fifteen minutes.”

T'Challa frowned slightly. “What time is it?”

Glancing at the clock, Zemo reported, “4:14.”

“In the morning?”

“In the morning.”

T’Challa stared at him. Zemo picked at his pullover sweater, a plain thing that T’Challa had provided him with as part of his imprisonment (custody? house arrest? sentence?).

“You planned to leave at 4:29?”

Now Zemo stared at him.

“That's it?”

T’Challa patted his own head, wondering if there was something wrong with it. No doubt he had on an extremely befuddled face.

“Why would you leave at 4:29 when 4:30 is a much cleaner -” T’Challa started, but was interrupted.

Zemo had gotten to his feet quickly and was shaking his feet out. Perhaps they had fallen asleep. “You need rest,” he said just as quickly.

T’Challa lunged forward, blanket slipping between his fingers as he made a grab at Zemo's shirt. He could not get leave, there was something else - quick, think of it -

Looking up into his eyes, seeing confusion coloring their corners, T’Challa exclaimed, “We were supposed to do something today! Yesterday.”

“Why do you keep making frantic statements like this?” Zemo muttered, largely to himself. Louder, he said, “You are ill. Rest is more important than my entertainment, so I must ask you to remain in bed.”

T’Challa knew Zemo was already regretting being there and having talked with T’Challa. He needed something to change that - something interesting but healthy. He needed to appeal to Zemo's rational mind.

Ah, but he had a rational mind as well. In under thirty seconds, T’Challa had devised an excellent plan:

“I need to go outside, for my health,” T’Challa lied. “I would like to spend that time with you to give you a tour of the gardens.”

“The doctor told you this yesterday?” Zemo asked with suspicion.

And rightly so, because T'Challa could not remember being visited by a doctor at all. He hoped that this doctor would not return again today; he had no intention of waiting in bed.

“Yes,” T’Challa confirmed. “In fact, we should go out right now.”

"It's past midnight!"

Zemo was so shocked that his face actually showed it. (T’Challa counted that as a victory.) He returned to T’Challa’s bedside so quickly that T’Challa could tell that he must’ve been a good father.

He wondered what Zemo’s son had been like. Zemo claimed he’d spoiled the child, but the concern that Zemo was showing him now, someone who may as well have been a stranger - that was not the look of a distant father.

This was a man who loved deeply and with everything he had.

He was tired and he was sick and he was obviously not in his right mind, but he looked back at Zemo with everything he could give.

He couldn’t tell him how much he wanted whatever Zemo could give him. T’Challa didn’t even have a reason why. He didn’t know.

Zemo swallowed hard.

Perhaps he knew.

“The gardens,” T’Challa said quietly, “they'll be fun.”

There were a great deal of truths to that statement. The Wakanda sunrise began at five o'clock (they had a little over a half hour, excellent), Zemo needed the breath of fresh air (surely the outdoors would improve his mood), and T’Challa hadn't visited the gardens in years. Training and traveling and studying had taken up most of his time.

He'd forgotten what they smelled like. The only thing he could remember seeing was a sunflower - they were one of his mother's favorites, and so they'd smuggled in some seeds from Russia. Which was terrible, but also terribly fun. His father had had this awful mischievous glint in his eye, and it made his mother laugh.

Yes. This was a good idea; this was the greatest idea he’d had in a while.

T’Challa grabbed Zemo's hand, taking a small ounce of confidence from its warmth and softness. “I need to see the sunflower.”

“What?”

“The sunflower!” T'Challa cried with clear exasperation, gripping his hand tighter. “Take me to the gardens; I must see the sunflower!”

Zemo peeled T'Challa's hand off his delicately. “Calm down,” he said wearily. “I will take you to the gardens. But,” he added, “how do we get out? Do we need to break out, like a jail?”

They both ignored the cruel (real) implications of the last phrase.

T’Challa opted for a snort. “You know that there is no way to get past the Dora Milaje.”

Zemo crossed his arms, leaned back as if posturing (as if). “Then can't you just leave? They're hardly your…” He paused. “…babysitters.”

Ah. That was true.

Damn, his mind was addled by illness. It'd be foolhardy to admit that now, however. Best to just carry on with the plan, but in a better fashion, but in the old fashion so that the original plan would appear to be the better, new plan.

That was… confusing.

His thoughts could not quite keep up, and so T’Challa grabbed Zemo's arm and used it to support his body weight. Which resulted in Zemo crying out in pain and T’Challa laughing. Which, looking back on it, was not a good move.

“My guards do not sit on babies,” T’Challa informed Zemo.

Zemo squinted at him funnily. “Are you running a fever?”

The two hardly made it out the door when one of the Dora Milaje immediately scooted from down the hallways and into their path. Raising her arms and drawing her weapon in a defensive position, she easily blocked their path. Impressive stance, but T’Challa could've easily dealt with her if he were at his full strength.

“Your Highness, you should be resting!” she protested, shoving her weapon in Zemo's direction (“N-now, w-wait a second,” he stammered) but turning a concerned eye to T’Challa.

“The doctor informed me that I required fresh air,” T’Challa told her. He tried his charming smile. Usually that worked on people not a part of his administration or the Dora Milaje. If that didn't work, maybe he could try confusing her with esoteric medicinal science terms.

He took a course in medicine once.

Maybe? Or was it marine biology?

Had he taken both?

T’Challa realized then that he definitely had a fever.

The guard grimaced. The charming smile did not work on her. “Your Highness, allow me to guide you back to your room and remove this -” she looked ready to spit at Zemo's feet, “- criminal from your space.”

“There is no need for that,” T’Challa said, gripping Zemo's arm just a little tighter. (He was, apparently, still holding onto it.) A headache began to creep up on him. It was an awful one; it felt like it was trying to crush his skull from the inside out.

“I am going out to the gardens,” he continued, letting his mouth do the talking for him, “and I am going to take this man with me. We will be out there for an hour or so. You will not bother us during this time unless the matter is crucial or urgent, or if either of us is in danger. You are to treat my companion’s safety as you would treat mine. Understood?”

The Dora Milaje guard gave a tight, reluctant nod. “Understood, King T’Challa.”

She wasn't happy. But she returned whence she came, and T’Challa realized - even through his feverish haze - that these women, strong and brave as they were, were not his babysitters.

Zemo had been right.

He was, ultimately, the king. He was connected to Wakanda in a way neither they nor anyone else were not.

(Obviously, T’Challa had not hired them as babysitters, but the sheer truth of the revelation hit him like a ton of bricks and he couldn't just… just.)

“What were you talking about?” Zemo asked.

T’Challa looked back, surprised for a moment. When had he stepped forward? Why did Zemo look so confused?

“What do you mean?”

“You were speaking a different language,” Zemo said quite pointedly, nodding his head in the disappeared guard’s direction. The hall was silent and empty now.

Had he really? “She, ah, questioned me. I converse with the Dora Milaje in strictly the Hausa dialect.”

“I see,” Zemo said carefully. He eyed T’Challa in a way that made T’Challa think that he did not, in fact, see. “What do they do, exactly?”

“Traditionally, or now?” T’Challa asked as he continued to make his way down the hall, taking care to be as silent as possible. He was ill but he was not incapable (well, of most things).

Zemo was not so conscious. He walked with footfalls that thudded with enough force to alert half the Dora Milaje to their presence. T’Challa would wince, but he was too concentrated on avoiding any rough spots on the floor. He was wearing socks - the footwear of the silent - and the rougher sections of tiled stone hurt his feet.

Zemo was wearing actual shoes. Good for him.

“Both,” Zemo requested. T’Challa could feel his gaze shift to his feet, and he knew that Zemo was wondering why T'Challa's steps were so awkward. Or perhaps not awkward. He was a warrior, his steps were graceful, albeit different.

T’Challa stopped suddenly.

Zemo nearly smashed into him. “What -”

T’Challa held up a finger, effectively silencing his companion. “Ask me later,” he murmured, bending around the corner. He held his breath, tensing for a fight. Three. Two. One.

He stepped out from behind the wall, assuming a fighting stance and fully prepared to fight off any and all enemies.

Except that there was nothing there.

Nevermind.

“Come,” said T’Challa, moving around the corner and sprinting down the short length to the other hall. His knees nearly gave way about three-quarters through, but he managed to hold on.

Zemo sighed. Ignoring T'Challa's glare, he crossed the hall nonchalantly and without any semblance of hurry.

“I thought this wasn't an escape,” Zemo said.

“It is not,” T’Challa insisted.

 

* * *

 

It took them some time to descend the stairs to ground level, but they were soon out the back door. Sliding the thick metal back into place, T’Challa turned from the vibranium door built in the cliffside, brushed his hands off, and turned to the wall of trees.

Zemo was already ahead, passing between their thick trunks to the clearing. T’Challa wondered if he actually knew where he was going. He quickly pressed on after the man.

 

* * *

 

It was dark, but the garden had some illumination. Perhaps it was not as fancy as the gardens he’d seen at Western palaces, but it was still as lush and as alive as he could remember. The forests acted as the end barrier. At his feet was the lawn, a field of grass only marred by the thin pathways that cut through it. Vined hedges and decorative trees crawled up around him; they were unruly and required work, but this was more than T’Challa had expected.

Even Zemo seemed impressed, nudging the glowing LED pathlights with his shoe. A closer look, and T’Challa realized that his companion’s face was carefully guarded. He was concealing layers upon layers of emotion.

He likely hadn’t been outside of his room and the private dining room for days - weeks?

T’Challa couldn’t help the ache of guilt that clutched his heart. Zemo was a prisoner. He was. He was not a good man and he didn’t deserve an ounce of pity, much less mercy.

(No matter how many times T’Challa told himself this, it wouldn’t work.)

He was a mess. Such a mess, and here he was, prepared to what? Frolic through a garden? Hold hands with a murderer? Forget who he was?

The headache stage of his fever came on then, hitting him at full force. Clutching his head in his hands, T’Challa forced himself to sit down. The path was cool beneath him, and its chill managed to calm him at least a little.

Zemo put a hand on his shoulder. It was firm, but gentle. (Again, he was reminded of a father caring for a child. What had Zemo been like before the Sokovian Tragedy? He’d never know, now.)

“Do you want to go back?”

“No,” T’Challa managed to get out, breaths halting as he attempted to calm down. His heart was beating wildly out of pace. It scared him.

Instead of leaving T’Challa to helplessly flounder on the pavement , Zemo held out a hand. T’Challa hesitated only a minute before he took it. It was hardly a betrayal to accept the aid.

Zemo grunted as he pulled the king to his feet and tossed his arm over his own shoulder. T'Challa faltered once before giving in and gripping Zemo as if his life depended on it - which it may as well have. The fever (flu?) was worse than he'd thought. At least the headache was receding.

“You're sure you don't want to turn back,” Zemo said.

“No,” T'Challa said, “I need to see the sunflowers.”

“After that.”

“After that, yes, we may return.”

“Fine.”

With T'Challa's arm draped across his shoulder, Zemo made a steady pace down the nearest path. He followed T'Challa's instructions carefully and without question. He did not complain when they made a wrong turn. He did not say if he was tired - T'Challa expected he must have been. T’Challa was not exactly a small man, and he was too tired to take most of his own weight.

The garden was certainly smaller than Western gardens, but it was still relatively large. And incredibly confusing. Signs that may have given directions were covered in vines. T’Challa did not tell Zemo this - why, he wasn’t sure. But it didn’t seem right. Besides, it was fun wandering the garden on their own. There was an air of mystery and excitement to it with no real danger to either of them. These were still Wakandan royal grounds.

Once, Zemo nearly tripped them over a root. It was an overgrown limb from a nearby tree, an old one with dead and yellow leaves. (Dry. Done.)

It was dark and perhaps they were nervous, because as the two clutched each other for balance, desperate to not topple over, they locked eyes and broke into breathless laughter. They shook with nerves alight, too embarrassed to do much else.

“I am sorry,” Zemo said once he had calmed down. (He did not sound very sorry.)

T’Challa squeezed his shoulder. He offered a smile. “Do not worry over it.”

Zemo smiled back.

It looked like it hurt.

 

* * *

 

Of course, all good things had to come to an end.

They'd reached the small greenhouse. The glass panels were smudged with dirt and age. Inside was dark, but T’Challa could make out some silhouettes.

He gripped Zemo's shoulder - he hissed a bit, and T’Challa muttered a quick “sorry” - and reached forward to turn the doorknob. Luckily it was unlocked. Likely no one had been there for some time.

He turned and jiggled the handle until it gave way. Zemo helped him push it open. Dust billowed out the bottom almost ominously, making the entire situation just a bit comical.

“Well?” Zemo nudged him forward.

T’Challa took a steadying breath and took a step forward until his entire body was in the greenhouse. He let a moment rest; he breathed in the earthy smell of the air. The greenhouse was warm and felt soft.

Strange, but comforting.

It was still too dark to see, but T’Challa knew that whatever laid before him was something he would have to accept.

Zemo put his hand on his shoulder again.

He hit the light switch.


	6. glass house, green house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zemo wakes up and finds that T'Challa is missing.

Helmut woke up the next morning in a cold bed.

He opened his eyes, startled at the sudden brightness, and slammed them shut immediately. Groaning, he rolled from his back to his side and took a deep breath.

At this point, he should have been only a couple inches from toppling off the side of the bed, but there was still more room. There was, in fact, lots of room. And the sheets were softer than usual, and the pillow beneath his head didn’t feel like a rock.

This wasn't his bed.

He scrambled to sit up, patting himself down and finding relief in the fact that he was still fully dressed. Blinking the blear from his eyes, he drew a shuddering breath and tried to focus on the blankets surrounding him.

Miles and miles of beautiful fabrics, but he was alone. A glance at the ajar bathroom door only reaffirmed this belief. Dragging himself out from beneath the covers, he tried to ruffle his predictably unruly hair back into place.

Where was he?

He scanned the walls for clues, but there was hardly anything to go by. The room was clean, a little too clean. There were neither photos nor any other piece of decoration.

In the corner, however, there was a small basket wherein a pile of clothes were tidily kept.

(Was he supposed to fold his borrowed clothing before putting it in the basket, as well? Helmut hadn’t been doing that. He felt only a small twinge of embarrassment before moving on.)

A scan of the clothing was all it took. He knew that blue shirt.

He swore aloud in Czech.

He _knew_ that shirt.

Its arm had been across his shoulder only hours ago.

 

* * *

 

_Helmut set him down on the grass in front of the greenhouse. It was further away from the rest of the gardens, and so the grass was wild and coarse. It wasn’t the best seat for the delirious king, but it would have to do. He did not know how much further he could carry him; he’d been militarily trained, yes, but he’d been in custody for far too long. He was tired._

_“You should hire better gardeners,” Helmut said to mask his discomfort. T’Challa acted as if he were untouched by sickness, but he was acting strangely clingy during its time. Like right then - he took Helmut's hand and gently but firmly pulled him down to take a seat at T’Challa’s right._

_Helmut reluctantly stayed there._

_“The sun will be up in a few minutes. The sky is already turning light,” T’Challa observed._

_Helmut took a look at him. There was something different to his eyes. He didn’t seem the hard, resilient king. The Black Panther, Wakanda’s Guardian. He was just T’Challa, and he was at peace._

_“You should be inside by then.”_

_“I should,” T’Challa agreed._

_Helmut huffed out a breath. “You’re sick.”_

_“I know.”_

_“See the doctor.”_

_“How dare you order your king as such,” T’Challa said blandly. It was almost mocking - of what, Helmut couldn’t be sure._

_“You’re not my king,” Helmut retorted. “I’m a Sokovian.”_

_“And you’re a Wakandan prisoner,” T’Challa pointed out._

_Helmut shifted sitting positions, drawing his knees to his chest. It was a surprisingly cold night. Well. Morning, technically. At least the stars were slow to fade. “Then why am I not in a cell?”_

_T’Challa reclined, his face disappearing beneath the long grass. “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”_

_“I’m guessing that I am the latter.”_

_The breeze let loose one last breath, the patch of grass bending over as if in defeat. T’Challa, Helmut realized, was smiling._

_He was such a strange man. T’Challa seemed like a solemn, intellectual, almost stern man. A responsible leader, a reflection of his father. (Which is only what Helmut had heard. He could be invisible whenever he so wished.)_

_Yet, here the king was, sprawled in the grass and smiling up at the stars._

_“How can you be so relaxed?”_

_T’Challa’s face disappeared once more beneath a wave of grass. “What do you mean?”_

_“You have the weight of a country on your shoulders. And here you are.”_

_T’Challa laughed. (The sound made Helmut’s heart flip up into his throat. He’d deny it later, playing the memory back over in his head.) “Laughter is the best medicine.”_

_Helmut gripped a clump of grass in his hand. It was sharp, dead, and the edges dug into his palm. Nothing made sense anymore. He’d thought, perhaps, that spending some time with T’Challa would let him better understand what made the man “tick”, so to speak, but he was only more confused. Maybe it was his fever talking - that’s what would be easiest to excuse his behavior as._

_Yet he’d been almost terrifyingly kind during Helmut’s entire imprisonment. He was playing at a dangerous game, T’Challa was._

 

* * *

 

Right. The garden.

Helmut dropped the shirt back in the pile of clothing like it’d burned him.

It may as well have - God, it stung.

He took a few deep, calming breaths. Helmut needed a plan.

First, he’d have to get back to his room.

Then, he’d figure out how to act in relation to T’Challa. Perhaps they could both just forget what had happened the night before. It’d be easiest for both of them

Though he still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in T’Challa’s bed.

That mystery could be solved later. He knew the Dora Milaje were constantly watching him, so he’d have to slip back to his room as quietly as possible. Could be difficult; stealth had never been his strongsuit.

Never.

Honestly, he’d probably be caught however he acted.

Thus, Helmut opened the door to T’Challa’s room calmly, closed it gently, walked the short distance across the hall, opened his own door, closed that one gently, and threw himself onto his bed.

 

* * *

 

_When they’d entered the greenhouse, Helmut could tell that T’Challa had been nervous. He’d noticed the tenseness of his shoulders and the steel in his eyes; they’d been out of place with the T’Challa he’d seen earlier._

_Then T’Challa had flicked on the light._

_It didn't seem like it would work, at first. Something buzzed and crackled, but it wasn't until T'Challa slammed a fist into the wall that the lights flickered on. They were hesitant, but each light panel eventually drew breath and stayed alight._

_When Helmut looked back at T’Challa, he was staring wide-eyed at the sight before him, fist slowly uncurling against the wall._

_“Is it what you thought?”_

_T’Challa stepped away from the wall, a ghost of a smile flitting across his features. He walked to the rows of potted plants before him, still in disbelief. Each plant was a little withered, a little crunched over, but they were alive._

_It shouldn’t have been possible. The state of the greenhouse suggested it'd been abandoned for years._

_“Wakanda provides,” T'Challa breathed. He ran a finger down the stem of a smaller plant. It was a gentle, soft action; the plant curled beneath his touch._

_What an odd thing to notice._

_Helmut cleared his throat. “Did you find what we came for?” (Sunflowers, wasn't it?)_

_T’Challa looked back up at him, confusion flitting across his eyes for only a moment. “Ah… No.” He drifted down the aisles of planters as Helmut leaned against wall, watching him._

_This carried on for only a minute or two. There's some scuffling before Helmut pulled out a pot from beneath a table. It was large and round, made of some pearly white material. “Empty,” T’Challa told him softly. His voice was empty._

_“Sorry,” Helmut said. He stepped off the wall, offering T’Challa his hand once more. “Can we go back now?”_

_And he was fully prepared to drag T’Challa back to his room. The man looked exhausted; and besides, he was sick. He was acting incredibly reckless. It was unbecoming._

_“Let me just… rest outside.”_

_Helmut frowned. “How long for?”_

_“Just a minute,” T’Challa promised, taking his hand. He looked at Helmut with a strange defiance. The dark circles beneath his eyes screamed of exhaustion, but his eyes were as clear as the stars above._

_So Helmut slung T'Challa's arm over his shoulder and walked him out the door. The door to the greenhouse closed gently behind them, holding the numerous and beautiful and dying plants within._

 

* * *

 

Fine. So that was how they ended up on the grass. Why had he been in T'Challa's bed?

Helmut sniffed his own clothing. Luckily, it smelled as it always did (albeit with a hint of earth). They had not done anything, at all.

His shoes were still on, too, he noticed. That meant he'd passed out - most likely - on rather than in T'Challa's bed.

Which meant he'd stayed there out of desperation. Not comfort nor anything else.

 

* * *

 

_“Zemo,” T’Challa said._

_“What do you want?”_

_“I never ask you about your day.”_

_“I don't ask you about your day, either.”_

_“But I tell you about them anyway.”_

_“Which is fine. I don't care.”_

_T'Challa's form scooted over. Helmut couldn't tell where to, only that he'd shifted. “I care.”_

_“You don't. My days are boring.”_

_“My fault,” T’Challa admitted._

_Helmut grimaced. “No. Your guards carry out their jobs excellently.”_

_“You don't deserve to be -”_

_Needless to say, Helmut was well and truly taken aback. What was T'Challa now, a liar?_

_“I do. Why would you question that?”_

_T’Challa hesitated with his next words._

_“I suppose that I see too much of myself in you.”_

_Suddenly, Helmut is reminded of the edge of a cliff. Snow. Ice. Screams. Corpses._

_“_ Your vengeance has consumed you _,” Helmut quoted. “And yours almost consumed you. You did not let it.” A lump formed in his throat then. He pressed on. “I let mine take control.”_

_“But we all have that potential, don't we?”_

_“I am certain we all do. I simply chose to act on it.”_

_They were silent together for a minute._

_“So,” Helmut said carefully. “Am I really a Wakandan citizen now?”_

_T'Challa laughed, and it was deep and warm. “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”_

_“I'm not simply close,” Helmut accused. T'Challa could tell._

_“Speak plainly.”_

_“The outside of our rooms are incredibly similar in style, shape, and color,” Helmut said, quiet. “My room is a bait.”_

_T’Challa scoffed. “For what?”_

_“Assassins. Traitors. I don't know.”_

_“Hardly. Of course not.”_

_“Then why -”_

_“I didn't build the palace. How should I know?”_

_Helmut could feel the grass digging into the skin of his hand. “How close do you think you need to keep me?”_

_“As close as possible.”_

_“You don't trust me.”_

_This gave T’Challa pause. “You give me no reason to,” he said cautiously._

_This, in turn, gave Helmut pause._

_They lay there in silence._

 

* * *

 

_When they finally got back to T'Challa's room, something had changed between them._

_It was just a little colder. A little more ice, a little more suspicion._

_Even so, Helmut let T’Challa down gently. Settled him on his side of the bed, the one more rumpled than the other. He moved to turn off the lights. When he was about to then leave, T’Challa said, voice cracking,_

_“Stay.”_

_Helmut couldn't help himself. “Is that a direct order?” he asked, trying to keep the bitterness from his tongue._

_T’Challa seemed to smile. It was hard to see anything at all in the dark. “Yes,” he said, amusement seeping through his tone._

_And so Helmut sat on the other side of the bed._

_He hadn't meant to fall asleep there._

 

* * *

 

_(When he was sleeping - dreaming? - he could feel something warm around him. It stayed there as the usual flashes of his wife and child taunted him in his sleep, so happy that it reminded him, constantly, of what he had lost. As the world crumpled around his family, the warmth held him tight._

_He did not dare open his eyes, but he knew it would be the dark blue sleeve of a sheet surrounding him.)_

 

* * *

 

Helmut kicked off his shoes, his head cradled in his hands.

What had he done?


	7. trapped in wine, 1/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Challa's back, and breakfast foods are discussed.

He hadn’t wanted to leave Zemo alone like that.

 

* * *

 

The lights above flickered and buzzed, a zap resonating throughout the small conference room as a fly hit the ceiling. All there was a king, a criminal, and a very large table. And a dead fly.

“Your Highness, I am glad to hear that you’re feeling better.”

“Thank you, Mr. – I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

The man nodded politely, smiling a pleasant close-mouthed smile. “They call me the Dealer. My cards skills precede me always!”

T’Challa laughed politely. “Then I thank you, Mr. Dealer. I had simply a passing illness.”

“Excellent. While I am grateful that our king is doing well, I was hoping we could talk about the, ah, business. Your Highness.”

“Of course. Are we not continuing on the old terms my father had laid down?”

“Hmm,” the Dealer mused, rubbing the short beard which clung to his lower jaw in desperate, wispy threads, “well, you know that our small tribe has not been doing well. Economy, you know. Vibranium is not as plentiful in our region as it once was.”

“Go on,” T’Challa said nicely. (That was a lie. It was very much a warning.)

He grinned, revealing a mouthful of twisted, metal teeth. “I want you to lower the export tax.”

T’Challa had to stop himself from scoffing – or worse, screaming. “And what do I get out of this deal?”

To be precise – he (and Wakanda) got nothing. The Dora Milaje had warned him of this, had warned him that this man was not to be trusted. It was true that his daughter was one of the Dora Milaje, but she’d sworn her loyalty to the King of Wakanda - not her family and their (enormously illegal) business.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps behind him.

The click of the gun. The barrel hitting the back of his head, cool metal like ice to his skin.

T’Challa had to keep himself from rolling his eyes at both the dull cliché and plain weapon.

“You get your life, Your Most Excellent Highness,” the man said plainly, gloating, all twenty gruesomely twisted metal teeth on plain display.

T’Challa gave a grim smile of his own. “Unfortunate that you should think this will work.”

“I don’t just think,” the criminal said, turning on his heel to do his victory pace. T’Challa could tell how excited he was. “I know.”

Before he could even turn his head back to reface his king, the man registered the dull sound of flesh-on-flesh, then the agonized wail of his henchman. The Dealer watched T’Challa with wide eyes as he snapped the barrel of the gun in two – he could see now the claws extended from the king’s fingertips.

“They told me you were too weak to don the suit!” he hissed, stepping back uneasily towards the door. A press of his fingerprint to the switch by it would unleash all of his small army on T’Challa, and the king was not sure if he could take them all on just yet.

“They were wrong,” T’Challa stated simply.

He slashed a hand through the air.

 

* * *

 

T’Challa got back to the helicopter later than he’d expected. With the way the negotiations had gone, though, his tardiness was acceptable. He was not sure his Dora Milaje companion would understand, however.

She grabbed his outstretched hand, helping pull him into the chopper. “What took you so long?” she yelled over the roar of the blades.

“He attempted to negotiate with my life!” T’Challa shouted in return, and they both laughed.

The two settled comfortably in the aircraft’s seats, putting on the muffling devices to protect their hearing. When that was done, T’Challa rolled up his sleeves to check on the Black Panther suit. He'd had several men firing on him at once - he was lucky to escape with his head, really (he’d forgotten the helmet). Extremely lucky. Though, after the bullet storm was over, the henchmen were easy to take out.

He hadn't killed them, of course. They. werewere tied together in secure binds with the Dealer at the center, all of them awaiting judgement in the form of the local authorities.As the protector of Wakanda, it was his duty to keep the innocents safe. But as king of Wakanda, he could not interfere on a local level. Given that the Dealer had been terrorizing that specific region, T’Challa reasoned that the district would prefer to deal with the criminal.

Besides, he was nothing top tier. The Dealer, for all his bravado, was a pirate at most. A dangerous one, but a relatively small threat to a small country.

 

The helicopter lifted off, blades ripping through the humid air. Steam billowed from the sides, and T’Challa peered out the helicopter’s side to meet it. It was both refreshing and warm.

The trees gradually grew smaller and smaller. T’Challa could see a small flock of birds burst from the forest as they pulled away from the old facility.

 

* * *

 

Zemo stared at him as he entered the private dining room, swallowing hard as if eating were suddenly a peculiar concept. There was something panicked about his gaze, and T’Challa felt suddenly guilty. He wasn't quite sure what for, yet.

“I-I am sorry,” T’Challa said, voice oddly halting. He cleared his throat, and tried again. “I, ah, left without notice. And especially after such a strange night before. It was rude, but I was -”

“- called away to perform your royal duties,” Zemo said in his soft voice.

The tension slowly slipped from T’Challa’s shoulders. He let loose a fleeting smile. “Yes. Though, not as king. As the Black Panther.”

Zemo raked his gaze up and down T'Challa's body. He knew the other man was likely just checking for wounds - he could probably spot every bruise in T'Challa's gait; he'd read Zemo's file, he'd been good - but a heat still rose to his cheeks.

T’Challa shifted on his feet, searching wildly for something to talk about. He picked something at random. “Bacon and coffee again? My staff has told me you eat this every morning, now.”

Oh, damn it all. He hadn't meant for it to sound creepy, but Zemo was giving him the strangest look.

At least he was willing to play along. “Yes. I tried other breakfast foods previously, toasts and the like, which were fine, but I can't shake the habit. I ate this while -”

His face contorted, and T’Challa knew he would say nothing else.

“A classic,” T’Challa offered, walking over to the small table and pulling out a chair. He set a bowl down on the wooden top, grabbing a box of cereal and dumping it in before pouring a generous amount of milk.

Zemo eyed the bowl warily. “You? Cereal?”

T'Challa shrugged. “One of the better Western breakfast foods.”

“It's so soggy,” Zemo said. He did not appear happy with T'Challa's choice - though he was one to talk, given how he ate the same meal every day.

T’Challa told him so, and was surprised to get a small laugh out of the Sokovian.

They finished their breakfasts in comfortable silence.

 

* * *

 

T’Challa spent the rest of the day preparing for the gala. There were speeches to memorize and faces to recognize, and T’Challa’s head hurt tremendously by the end of the endeavor. People were constantly reminding him of the theme and the importance of the event - which he understood, he really did. He knew that the signing of this document had been one of Wakanda’s first steps into the true realm of international politics. He knew that this was as much the Black Panther’s duty as it was the duty of King T'Challa.

But it was just so tiring.

T’Challa nearly fell asleep while reading a document. For the life of him, he couldn't remember what it said. He was only kept awake by the sharp knock at his door.

Walking over - ignoring the pins and needles eating at his legs - he opened the door to a small-looking Zemo. “Can I come in?”

T’Challa nodded dumbly, opening the door wider.

“I think I might've lost a paper in here,” Zemo confessed. “I woke up yesterday morning in your bed, I could hardly remember the night before -”

“Nothing happened,” T’Challa said quickly. His face burned for the second time that day, and he tried as hard as he could to will the blush away.

“I know,” Zemo said, appearing unfazed. “Still, I left the room in a panic and I believe my paper slipped out my pocket. Perhaps under the bed, if you could help me move it later -”

“A paper?” T’Challa interrupted once more. That was a very small thing to lose.

Zemo blinked. “It's a photo of my family. Folded up. Printed on paper.”

“Oh,” T'Challa said.

Zemo shrugged. “It's all I've got.”

He said it so casually, T’Challa could hardly believe it. But this was Zemo, after all. He was dangerous and insane, and heartbroken.

It was a mantra he'd repeated since Day One. Something to remind himself that this was not simply another person - this was possibly one of the most dangerous people on Earth. For him to accomplish all he had was both impressive and frightening.

He wondered exactly how much the man could achieve with the right motivation.

T’Challa nodded slowly. “I will help you find your photograph.”

Zemo briefly smiled. “Thank you.”

T’Challa got down on his front, lifting the bed’s trailing sheets to get a look under the bed. It was dark but there did not seem to be anything underneath.

“You were ill last I saw you,” Zemo called, going through T'Challa's rubbish bin. “How are you now?”

“It was a passing sickness,” T'Challa dismissed quickly. He pushed himself up to his knees and hesitated only a second before feeling through his bedsheets.

Zemo watched him from his position in the floor, surrounded by bits of paper. “You recovered quickly.”

T’Challa knew it had something to do with the Black Panther. He could not tell Zemo that. He'd hardly believe him, for one. For another, that was against the oath T'Challa'd sworn to.

So he shrugged and continued to feel around. Eventually he touched something more rough and pointy than the soft threads. Withdrawing his hand, Zemo unwrapped a now-wrinkled folded slip of paper.

It was Zemo when he was younger, with an infant in his arms and a woman at his side. They were smiling, the utter happiness evident in their shining eyes and bright faces. It was a simpler time, perhaps. T'Challa couldn't help but wonder if this was before or after he'd joined the kill squad.

The picture left his hand as soon as it'd gotten there.

“Thank you,” Zemo said, voice as cool as ice. His grip on the photo was white-knuckle tight; he was far from happy.

It wasn't any of T'Challa's business, was it?

“Sorry,” T’Challa said. “I shouldn't have, without -”

“That doesn't mean shit.”

T'Challa couldn't help the hurt that hit him then. “Of course.” He followed Zemo to the door, intending to see him out. A thought struck him suddenly, and he realized he'd forgotten to tell Zemo about tomorrow.

“Stark is arriving early tomorrow. We're entertaining him for lunch, but he'll still be around for the gala dinner and perhaps until the next morning.”

“I'm a sitting duck,” Zemo supplied half-heartedly.

“Just… stay in your room. We'll -” T’Challa was thinking as he spoke - “figure it out. Come up with a danger to keep them from entering your room.”

“Them?”

T’Challa nodded. “Romanoff will be accompanying Stark.”

Zemo's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.


End file.
